


Good Soldier

by largefella



Category: BioShock
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2241363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largefella/pseuds/largefella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He measures the weight of the wrench in his gloved hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for a prompt on LJ/Dreamwidth, three years in the making!

Jack screams when his leg is broken.

The bone snaps so easily, under just the right amount of pressure and weight, and it's oh so, _satisfying_. It reminds Fontaine of the wet branches he used to break as a child to assuage his boredom—the muffled _snap_ , the feeling of something giving away under the power of his own two hands. The need to break and shape had been something that had trilled through his body since he was a lithe lad with a head full of big, big dreams and with dexterous fingers that always smelled like copper.

He imagines the exposed bone marrow, the microscopic blood vessels releasing tiny, frenzied squirts of blood, and is not surprised to find himself growing hard.

"Please!" Jack sobs, his teeth chattering. The pain is, no doubt, unbearable for him. “Please! Jesus! No more!”

Fontaine reaches up to tenderly touch the other man's face and then, midway, has a change of heart. Instead, he roughly grabs Jack's jaw, squeezing hard enough to goad the man's mouth into opening.

"Would you kindly smile for me, Jack."

There is the brief pause. Then, Jack's lips quirk into a macabre grin. It doesn't reach his eyes, which are wide and terrified and glassy with tears. Fontaine likes the discontent and thinks Jack is a very lovely contradiction.

He unwinds an arm from the man's now-limp appendage and stands slowly. Taking his time, he ponders his next course of action. This wasn't something to rush. 

"Atlas, please—"

"Fontaine," he corrects absently and searches along the grimy, checkered floor of the abandoned ballroom until he lands on the heavy looking wrench Jack had been holding earlier. Abruptly, he wishes he had some music to play; maybe some Tchaikovsky, Darin, Cohen...

Something, anything really, to _really_ get them in the mood. 

When he finally turns around, he finds Jack retching violently, and the wet smack of the contents of the man's stomach as they hit the floor stirs him. It's more bile than anything else, and as Fontaine carefully approaches the wretched form he can smell the sour fumes.

"...Oh sorry, but what were you thinking would happen, boyo? I'd just let bygones be bygones? _Let you go_? Really? After all we've been through?" 

He measures the weight of the wrench in his gloved hands.

The scarlet metal is rusted and peeling. He thinks of how many deformed faces Jack has had to bash in, how many heads he's had to smash like over-ripe watermelons. The mere thought of Jack's desperation makes him smile serenely. 

“Jack, would you kindly hold out your hand?”

Jack's sobs grow in their intensity as he jerkily holds out a bloody hand. Fontaine can't help but think that the gesture is like that of a hesitant child, afraid of punishment and bound to obey. His cock twitches in the now-too-tight confines of his trousers and he swallows dryly. 

He hears his name—a faint, broken sound from Jack's lips, and savors it. It rolls through him, an inexplicable shiver, and makes the hairs on the back of his neck and arms rise. It isn't enough, he needs more, needs it louder. He wants Jack to _scream_ his name.

His grip tightens on the handle, a zing of anticipation streaks through him. 

Jack's whispered pleas quickly rise in tempo as he lifts the wrench above his head and swings it down, hitting the knee-cap of Jack's broken leg squarely, shattering it under the heavy metal with a louder-than-expected crunch. He puts all his strength into the blow, feeling himself grinning madly as he does so. 

The glorious scream that follows fills him with pure, unadulterated, bliss and he closes his eyes and allows it to wash over him like a salty wave.

“Oh, kid. Oh, kid. Sorry, I missed, Jack,” Fontaine murmurs sweetly, but his soft voice is drowned out by Jack's agonized cries. 

“Why are you doing this?” Jack finally manages to grind out, blood seeping out from behind his teeth, staining one side of his gums with bright redness. Fontaine thinks that he's probably bitten his tongue and he has difficulty suppressing the urge to force Jack's mouth open so that he can press his own tongue against Jack's wounded one. He swallows again, the thought tugging on the back of his mind like a nagging itch.

His voice— _Christ_ —Fontaine can't enough of it; a delightful mix of agony and fear. It's nearly on the edge of hysteria. Would the man, perhaps, go mad before he was finished with him? Fontaine wished that he would and wouldn't. He wanted to make sure Jack felt everything he was about to do to him, but he also liked the idea of breaking Jack apart, just the same—to end it quickly, in beautiful flash of blood and tissue, to beat the life out of Jack with five easy bludgeons. 

“Smile Jack, would you kindly smile for me,” he urges, hoarsely, licking his dry lips. 

Jack's entire body is shaking and he weeps messily; tears and mucous congealing. He reeks of blood and sweat and of bile...and it's beautiful. Fontaine wouldn't have been able to take his eyes off of him, even if he had cared to have tried. The way the man's broken leg and shattered knee look makes for a pretty picture. Bits of bone have pierced through his skin and trousers, a result from the force of the blow, and the contrast of white against the dark fabric is one of the most exquisite sights Fontaine has ever had the pleasure of viewing. 

And even through all of this, Jack is smiling a weak, bloody smile, chained to Fontaine's orders like a whipped, dumb mutt.

Fontaine strokes the wrench's handle with his thumb. 

“Give me a good reason not kill you.”

“Please, I...” Jack simpers haggardly and Fontaine sneers at the pitiful way Jack begs.

“What?” Fontaine mocks cruelly, cupping his ear. “One more time! I can barely hear you boyo, speak up!”

“I-I'll do anything...” 

Fontaine whistles.

“'Anything', _really?_. That's quite a promise there, Jack.” 

He steps over to the shivering man and squats, both knees on either side of Jack's ruined leg, resting his chin on his palm. Jack doesn't meet his eyes and, rather than angered by this, Fontaine feels a little thrill of excitement. The idea—the very idea that this shell of a man, a formally autonomous individual, was so clearly terrified of him, of his control over him, drove Fontaine wild. A man brought to his knees by a few mere words...in a way, Jack was barely human, now. Really, was he ever? 

Fontaine's eyes drift down to Jack's chest where he can clearly see the beating of the other man's heart through the fabric of his blood-stained sweater. He bares his teeth, fingers twitching, at the thought of ripping it out of Jack's chest and squeezing the last breath out of the man. He lays the wrench down.

“Look at me,” Fontaine whispers, voice husky. 

Jack visibly hesitates, his breath interrupted by a choking sound he makes in the back of his throat. Almost like a hiccup—Fontaine is again reminded of a child being disciplined and is now achingly aware of his need for release. 

Slowly, very slowly, Jack turns to him. It's hard to keep his breath steady when Jack's miserable gaze meets his. Fontaine thinks that he is the only person in the entire world right now who thinks that the pain and fear etched on to Jack's face make him infinitely more beautiful. 

Jack is handsome, with a strong jaw and sad, sad eyes. Fontaine smiles and leans forward to press his lips to Jack's temple, tasting salt. 

A wonder, that's what Jack was to him, an honest to God wonder. Jack was a man who lived for _him_ —to serve only _his_ purposes, to come when beckoned. Never in Fontaine's wildest dreams had he thought he'd ever have so much control over another human being in his entire life. Fontaine loved it, loved the control. Always had. 

He's painfully hard now and as he presses closer to Jack he notes other man's wide eyes.

“Oh, Jack. Jack, oh...” he purrs and lets Jack's name roll easily off of his tongue, his voice smooth like velvet.

“Let's see what you can do then, Jack,” Fontaine states as evenly as he can. He lifts himself up and unbuckles his belt. 

He holds his half-erect cock to Jack's tear-stained face and puts an encouraging hand on the back of Jack's head 

Jack is not slow on the uptake. 

He hesitates, brows bent and smile drooping slightly, before he takes Fontaine into his mouth and begins to bob awkwardly. 

“Never done this before, eh boyo?” Fontaine laughs coldly at Jack's amateurish handling of giving head.

Jack's eyes briefly flash up and he works faster, desperately. He's not getting any better but it still manages to make Fontaine harder. It wouldn't have taken very much anyway. 

Fontaine puts both of his hands on the back of Jack's head and maneuvers him more to his liking, which Jack can do nothing but allow. Jack's hands reach up to grip the now loosened ends of Fontaine's belt, pulling Fontaine closer to him at the same time. 

“Oh, _shiit_ —Jack,” Fontaine laughs breathlessly. He pulls himself out entirely, cock wet with saliva and blood, and a trail of both leaves from the tip of Jack's tongue to the glistening head of his cock. Jack looks up at him, gasping faintly and smiling, and Fontaine inhales sharply at the sight. 

He curls his fingers into Jack's hair, eliciting another hiccup from the man, and thrusts himself as far down Jack's throat as he can. Jack gags but Fontaine gives him little time to adjust before he roughly fucks Jack's mouth until he shoots his load.

“Jesus! Ah, Jack...Jesus...” 

Most of it goes down Jack's throat, his tightly shut eyes and green pallor are testament to this fact. And when Fontaine finally pulls out, Jack dry heaves and collapses onto his side, come sticking to his cheek. He weakly spits a little of it out and it's faintly pinkish. 

Fontaine wipes the spittle from his own mouth and breathes heavily, watching Jack with a tilted head. He tucks himself back into his underwear but doesn't bother zipping his trousers back up.

“Huh. Not too bad. Not too bad for your first time. You've got a pretty mouth, that helps.” 

He kneels beside Jack's quietly heaving body.

There's a beat of silence and then Fontaine swiftly grabs Jack by the throat. 

Jack chokes, hands flying up to Fontaine's wrist and Fontaine is slightly alarmed to find that there's still quite a bit of strength in his grip.

“Would you...kindly, drop your hands,” Fontaine hisses. He tightens his grip when Jack's hands fall uselessly to his sides and his eyes are wide and terrified again. He can only gargle.

Fontaine switches positions to straddle Jack and suddenly cannot help himself. Blood purples Jack's face, his eyes begin to bulge, and a trail of saliva leaves the corner of his mouth. Jack's fear must have been great; the sensation of being strangled, powerless to stop it despite having the capability of doing so. Oh, the ways Jack's mind must have been turning now—the fleeting thoughts that must be rushing through his brain and the sweet, mounting despair. 

He lets Jack go through sheer willpower and steals the first gasp of breath Jack manages to try to suck in by crushing their mouths together. Jack arches up against him. His body is warm and distinctly male; solid and well-muscled.

Fontaine bites Jack's lip, pulling it and releasing it, and then breaks away to allow Jack to gulp his precious lungfuls of air in relative peace.

“I don't think—I don't think I can go on for much longer, like this,” Fontaine breathes unevenly and puts his hand on Jack's face trying to get the other man's unfocused eyes back on him. “Do you?”

“Please...” Jack whispers, lips cracked, “just kill me, already...”

“I know, kid. I know,” Fontaine tuts and smears the come and sweat on Jack's face as he runs a hand along Jack's cheek up to his damp hair. “You're doing so well. Good lad, _good soldier_.”

Suddenly, Jack's whole body tenses up and he gazes at Fontaine, horrified. They are just words Fontaine says at random, but they must have dug up some of the false memories fed into Jack's little head so long ago. They had just slipped out without Fontaine's meaning to. Perhaps they were uttered from his "father" or "mother" on the surface; perhaps once when Jack skinned his knee as a child or cracked his head on the porch steps of his home, during his perfect little pre-programmed life. It was just chance, pure chance. But this had broken something, finally, in Jack—Fontaine could see it in the other man's dark eyes, as though he were now looking through Fontaine, mind incapable of even recognizing what was in front of him.

He picks up the wrench and brings it close to Jack's face. He doesn't want to ruin Jack's pretty, pretty face. He wants to see the subtle changes of emotion, if just for a little bit longer. There is a trickle of anger that is slowly pooling inside his chest, his throat is tickling with a held-back scream.

He extends Jack's arm and is met with little resistance. 

Fontaine stands and he puts a dirty boot on the joint of Jack's shoulder, holding him steady, and breathes hard through his nose as he slams the wrench down onto Jack's elbow. The scream that pierces the air riles Fontaine up even more and he does the same to Jack's other arm and the man's untouched leg. He breaks, and crushes and drives out as much of Jack's screams as he could in the mad frenzy that has visited him with such frightening intensity.

It takes too long, maybe twenty minutes. 

By the time he has finished with Jack, the man's mouth is open in a soundless scream, his entire body twitching, throat finally giving out after the prolonged torture. Fontaine thinks that this may be the first and perhaps very last time he will ever see an individual in such pain.

When Jack's head finally rolls to the side, limp, his eyes are blank and the slight fall and rise of his chest is so faint it might not have been there at all.

And he's still beautiful.

“Would you kindly stay alive for me Jack...just a bit longer.”

The words come out strange to his ears, soft, like someone else is saying them. 

Fontaine stumbles down to kneel between Jack's broken legs. He unbuckles Jack's pants, lifts the man's hips, feeling sweat trickle down his face, hurriedly pulls himself out from his trousers once more. And without any further warning, he slams into Jack. He is shocked that he has grown so hard again so quickly, and it is more painful than it is pleasurable when he tires to bury himself as deep as he can into Jack's unprepared hole. 

Nothing on Jack's face registers this final act. The tears that had pooled at the corner of his eye finally drip across his nose and land on the floor.

Fontaine fucks Jack until the very last rattle of a breath leaves his lips. 

He comes inside a corpse and his half-weeping laughter echoes well into the endless night under all of that dark, greenish water.


End file.
